


Hard Feelings

by InfernalPume



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:35:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfernalPume/pseuds/InfernalPume
Summary: He sucks at this





	Hard Feelings

Poriel was not the best when it came to emotions. That wasn’t to say that he was unable to recognize them, or that when he saw emotional displays that he was at a loss. A large part of his career was bedside manner and ability to say the right thing in the right way at the right time. All that more or less fell under the art of reading people, rhetoric to be more specific, and Poriel had proven himself to be very good at _that._

 

But when someone had an upbringing like Poriel’s it was difficult to be the one expressing such things. Kipp was a hard man, probably the hardest Poriel had ever known, not the kind of man who would validate a child’s fits with a response. Tears were met with cold indifference, tantrums with a harsh glare that his son still feared to this day, as was any garish show of extreme happiness or excitement. While Poriel would never be able to imitate the elegant icy disposition of his father, Kipp was content with a quiet thoughtful son who only spoke when spoken to and allowed his work to speak for him.

 

It wasn’t as if Poriel could slide into such habits when he left for college, seeing as it was the very environment Kipp had been preparing him for. Everyone expected Poriel to be a monster. They expected fire when he was angry, hurricanes when he was impatient, and winds when he was excited. Never mind that elemental magic had nothing to do with emotions, that all these effects could only be achieved through practiced study and perfect calligraphy, it was what outsiders believed. So Poriel was quiet, well mannered, and more than a little dull. He was friendly, he had to be in order to make allies, always with a careful disposition that was never too passionate or too cold. There would be no dire consequences when his pride was injured, or his heart broken. And who could break a heart that seemed so pleasantly indifferent to everything? From nameless students destroying his personal property to being saddled with far more work than scholars had any right to give, Poriel always gave a gentle smile and showed an enthusiasm to rise to the occasion.

 

It could be said that Poriel let this carefully constructed persona slip a bit in one regard. In the privacy of his home he was always more than a bit excited to work and irritated when things got in the way. Still, this only ever manifested as him talking to himself and the select few he trusted in his office while he was working, so it never amounted to being anything too dangerous.

 

Poriel only sometimes laughed out louder than a gentle chuckle, very rarely raised his voice, and never, _never_ cried. He was bland. A blank slate. No more or less than he needed to be.

 

So when he looked at Farhad’s sleeping form, he didn’t quite know what to feel. It was late at night, the first night they were back in the Gap, and he found he was having trouble sleeping.

 

Very gently Poriel traced his dark fingers over the discoloration on the side of his lover’s face. For one thing, he knew that Farhad was the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on. Not only handsome, while he was that and then some, but also…something else. Proud, maybe, that was the word to describe it. Everything about Farhad was proud, even when he had been a prisoner. He was proud of his size, his hard past, and in the right environment, his love for Poriel. Even the pinkish tan of his scars had a certain dignity to them, on any other face it might look brutish but on Farhad it might as well have been a tattoo. Calculated. Intentional.

 

As Poriel’s fingers reached Farhad’s chin, he found himself looking down at his body. Farhad’s arms were like a world within themselves. When Poriel wasdrawn into them he was surrounded by warmth on all sides. Those were the best nights, the nights when they could just fall asleep locked together, usually exhausted and finally able to stop thinking about work. It was in those times that Poriel could really sink into the sensations associated with his lover. Times he could remind himself, ‘this is how he smells, this is the softness of his skin,’ and so on. In those quiet moments Poriel felt a flush of emotion as he did now.

 

It wasn’t the same as the wave of infatuation that had crashed over him in those early encounters. That had been easy enough to decipher, there was something Poriel saw that he liked, and he had wanted it. Comparable to finding a tunic that fit you well, or a sweetly scented fruit. Easy. Done.

 

But what he felt now was different. It crept up on it slowly when he didn’t pay attention, only letting itself be known in this quiet instance when Poriel has nothing else to distract itself. And gods, did it let itself be known. If Poriel couldn’t feel the soft sheets on his skin, he would be sure this feeling had picked him up and throttled him like a child to a doll. It was unapologetic, it didn’t care about what Father would think, what _anyone_ would think. As Poriel stared at his sleeping lover he thought to himself that he wanted everyone to know. He wanted to run to the top of the council building and shout it over the rooftops of the city.

 

Quietly he sighed again. Of course he couldn’t _really_ do that. Even if he kept his promise to Farhad, even if the entire council came to their wedding to personally bless the union, Poriel still wouldn’t do it. He had proven that in Khartoum, proven it when he couldn’t even look Farhad’s friends in the eye when he was introduced as his lover. Fear of judgment was only an excuse, an excuse which rapidly lost its relevancy.

 

It was just so _easy_ for Farhad, wasn’t it? Even when they had first started he had shown such excitement and enthusiasm like it was _nothing._ When they had almost parted ways in Khartoum he had allowed himself to spill tears, not only in front of Poriel but in _public._ Farhad didn’t even care if his own _Queen_ saw him cry, and Poriel would bet he was the same about the scholars. If Farhad wanted to he could shout it out from the top of the council building, Poriel knew. Farhad could shout it to the world, he could laugh about it, tell everyone and anyone how he felt.

That fact made Poriel feel awful at the time. The fact that Farhad was so eager to show him to everyone, while Poriel could barely bring himself to hold his hand. What if Farhad didn’t know why Poriel was so hesitant, what if he didn’t know that Poriel couldn’t _help_ it? Farhad might be upset about it, hurt by it. In time he might resent him for it.

 

Again Poriel focused on Farhad’s face. It might not be enough just to say the words, and what words could he even use to describe just how he felt about the man? This strange, intelligent, damn near _perfect_ man who had stumbled into his life on accident…

 

Something was sliding down Poriel’s cheek, making Poriel stop his train of thought. At first he had assumed it was an insect, and absently tried to shoo it away. It continued to slide down his face and Poriel slid a finger to feel a wetness that had not been there before. Poriel blinked, then looked down at his hand. Another tear dropped onto his wrist. Taking a staggering breath, Poriel shook his head. Wiping his eyes with the palm of each hand he went to lie beside his lover again.


End file.
